


Someday Soon I'll Become Home

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: Society and Sorcery 'verse [2]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Character Development, F/F, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Cameos - Freeform, Pining, Slow Build, nevermind don't answer that, what's wrong with this website?, why is there a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz likes his life the way it is now. It isn't perfect, but it's a lot better than it was at school, and he's going to do his fae-blessed best to make sure it holds. Even if it means hiding his feelings (and ignoring a bunch of issues, but whatever, that's totally the adult thing to do).<br/>Simon is struggling with his new life. Burdened with all the duties and responsibilities of the Mage's Heir, along with the expectations of the World of Mages, he feels as if he's hiding a mess behind the name and the face.<br/>Baz agrees about the mess bit (he really likes the face), but hey, what are friends for if not to help you get your shit together? (Don't answer that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea parties and Twitter, I've never been so bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see! Okay, this was supposed to be focused on Simon's issues, but he has so many that I ended up running away from them. (Ha.) Actually, Baz has a feckton as well, so my plan of making four fics with each focusing on a different character and occurring in a different season isn't working out as planned. Well, except for the seasons bit. Now imagine them all dressed up all Mucha-style. Yeah, that's the stuff. *goes and retches in the corner*

"Rule number one, when talking about politics in polite company." Agatha paused and pressed her hands together, pointing them at Simon. "Don't."  
"But what if they ask?" Simon unconsciously straightened into a student's pose, hands clasped in his lap and shoulders rounded forward. "What if they're politicians? What if they really insist? What if they're allies? What if they're-" A small square cushion hit him in the head, cutting him off and causing him to rub his head.  
"Sorry, the library cushions are really hard," Baz said. Surprisingly, he actually sounded remorseful.  
"You didn't have to chuck one at me, then." Simon tossed the pillow back and Baz ducked. The cushion flew over his head and hit a shelf, knocking a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica Arcana to the floor. The thud echoed though the library, making everyone wince.  
"Keep it down, I'm trying to study," came Penelope' voice from the back of the room.  
"See what you did? Pick the book up, Baz, and stop acting like idiots." Agatha nodded when Baz got up without complaining. "Now, Simon, to answer your question-"  
"Questionssss," Baz muttered from the floor."  
"Silence in the library," Agatha said. "So. If they ask, evade. If they're politicians, they won't want to talk shop. If they really insist, remember their names and try to prod them for motives. If they're allies, then they're political activists and therefore, not polite company."  
"I heard that," Penelope called.  
"You're the exception that proves the rule," Agatha called back.  
"How come I'm not allowed to interrupt, but you're allowed to have shouty conversations with your girlfriend?" Baz asked. He let go of the encyclopedia, which he had been trying to wedge back onto the shelf, and placed both hands on his hips. The encyclopedia promptly fell down again, this time hitting Baz in the shin and landing on his foot.  
"Because my girlfriend is perfect and wonderful, and I'm the teacher here. Also, serves you right," Agatha said over Baz's quiet steady stream of curses.  
"Are you okay, Baz?" Simon asked, leaning so far over the arm of his chair that he was in danger of falling off.  
"Hell be fine. He's a vampire," Agatha groaned.  
"I've had worse," Baz said, ignoring Agatha and pausing in his swearing to smile at Simon.  
Agatha groaned again and slumped against the side of her chair, leaning her head down onto the headrest. "This lesson is never going to happen, is it?"  
"No, I'm listening," Simon said quickly, pulling himself back into sitting position. "Really, I am, Agatha. Sorry."  
"Uh-huh. I'm sure." Agatha gave up on standing and sank down into her chair.  
"No, i am," Simon insisted. "You were saying, rule number one is to never ever affiliate yourself with the wrong circles. And that it's terribly difficult to know which ones are the wrong ones."  
"No, that was rule number one number, ah, three I think. We'd just reached number five," Baz said.  
"Sorry. I'm a little out of focus today. I'm so tired..." Agatha's voice petered out and she rubbed her eyes.  
"Pen's fine," Baz said, smirking at her.  
"A) Penelope didn't stay up all night going through her colleague's computer files, and b) I absolutely refuse to accept any innuendos, and especially from you."  
"Who used an innuendo? You have a dirty mind, Wellbelove." Baz settled calmly back into his chair next to Simon's.  
"Ugh. That's because it's full of every file on Elmer's hard drive. He keeps porn on his work computer. Porn," Agatha repeated. "Who does that?"  
"Everyone does," Penelope called.  
"No they don't!"  
"I do, on my laptop."  
"That's also your personal computer, it doesn't count. Also, that wasn't porn, I read it!"  
"It's nerd porn!"  
"Crowley, I don't want to know," Baz muttered.  
Simon nodded, his cheeks bright pink. "Um, Agatha? How about you get some sleep? We can put this off. Or Baz can keep teaching me."  
"Baz and I teach you different things," Agatha said, but she got up. "I suppose I'm useless like this. Dump me on the sofa."  
"Guest room," Baz said firmly. "Pen, we're putting her to sleep!"  
"Good! Make sure it's permanent!"  
"Love you to, 'nelope," Agatha called.  
Simon hovered as Baz marched her up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. "I thought you didn't have to do computer things?"  
"I just skimmed the files. It's training. You know what he labelled the folder? Privates. With an s. I can't wait until they move me out of that office." Agatha yawned and followed Baz into the guest room that was always ready for use these days.  
"Sleep. We'll wake you in two hours," Baz said.  
Agatha nodded and sat down on the bed, pulling one foot into her lap and tugging at the buckles. "Okay."  
"Come on, Simon, let's leave her to it. No need to ogle the lady." Baz put a hand on Simon's back and ushered him out, shutting the door behind them.  
Agatha blinked at the door. "Morons," she said to the empty room.  
\-- - --  
Somehow, Baz's hand had stayed on Simon's back the whole way back to the library, and now Simon was practically digging his heels into the stone floor, resisting its gentle pressure. "Let's not go back to the library. We'll just disturb Penny."  
"Ok. Where do you want to go?" Baz dropped his hand, and Simon stumbled backwards a step.  
"I don't know. Outside?"  
"It's a little cold outside, but we could do that," Baz said patiently. Simon was often fidgety, but now he was shifting from foot to foot, and there was a difference between Simon messing with his hair and Simon so distracted that he almost fell down. He'd done it a lot in school, tripping over his own feet and words, but he'd outgrown the last of his teenage awkward-in-his-own-body clumsiness in the past year.  
"Oh. Well, we can stay inside. There's plenty of room. I mean, obviously you know that, you live here."  
Baz just barely resisted rolling his eyes. He probably deserved a medal for that. "We'll wear our coats. The fresh air will do- us good."  
"Yeah, ok." Simon followed at his side, head down and hands in his pockets, too close to his stance during those bad years at Watford. Baz's stomach turned.  
They ended up on a sheltered walk (which was actually the kind of thing you could find on the Pitch family grounds. Baz had been eight years old when he learned that even most of his father's rich high society friends didn't own their own private lakes.) Bundled up, Baz could hardly feel the cold, but he knew his perception of temperature was skewed, so he kept an eye on Simon. Or rather an eye on Simon's pink cheeks. And pink nose.  
John Nevil Maskelyne help him. Pen would kill him if he ever used such a disgusting term as 'whipped', but he was definitely done for. His happiness depended on the happiness of the (possibly) most powerful mage ever to walk the earth. Who also happened to be an insecure teenager who never rolled his sleeves up right and always smelled of apples.  
"Not that Baz was a confident, well-adjusted adult (if such a thing even existed), but at least he knew how to treat his shirts properly.  
He watched Simon kick a pebble moodily and snapped. But gently.  
"So. What do you want to go over next?" Simon didn't answer, and Baz continued. "I'm not that great at all those precise manipulations. Agatha's much better than me, she's a natural at it. I can't plan ahead. I have to address that specific person and really get to know them if I want to be able to maneuver them like that, but if they know me well they'll see right through me. So there aren't a lot of people I can play like that."  
Simon grunted. "You played me like that. In school."  
"What? Simon, I couldn't get you to do anything half the time. The other half I either made a lot of noise while sneaking out so you'd follow me, or I dared you. You were- are- easy to goad, not manipulate. You see through people a lot better than you think you do."  
"Oh." Simon didn't look cheered up.  
Baz tried for levity. "So, since you're ready for whatever questions the socialites throw at you, do you want to practice table settings? I know you think you've got them down pat, but you still confuse the salad fork with the dessert fork."  
"I don't want to practice anything. Baz." Simon stopped walking, and Baz stopped just as abruptly. "I don't think- I don't think I can do this. I mean, I, I." Simon turned his head away and coughed, as if trying to disguise the squeak in his voice as a sore throat, but it came out weak and wet.  
For a second Baz froze, unsure of what to do and why is it always me Penny is much better at feelings then me running through his head. But then it passed, because this was Simon, and Simon shouldn't be crying. He laid a hand on Simon's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Come on, let's sit down." He glanced around and led Simon a little off the path, walking around an enormous oak to a seat carved into the roots of the tree. He sat Simon down on the wood- a little damp, but it couldn't be helped- and rubbed his shoulder helplessly. Simon wasn't really crying, only kind of sniffling, and Baz wasn't sure what the etiquette was here. Would Simon shy away and pretend he was fine if Baz put an arm around him, or would he stiffen and laugh it off?  
Simon made a high pitched hiccupy noise, and Baz's heart hiccupped right with him.  
Damn the consequences, nobody should make that noise. "Hey, it's all right, you can tell me what's wrong." Baz leaned over and peered at Simon's face, surprised to see it wet. When had he started crying? He hadn't been making a sound. "Fuck, Simon, don't cry." He turned Simon a little and slid closer, wrapping both arms around him.  
"You swore," Simon said, chin on Baz's shoulder. His voice was reedy, but otherwise he sounded normal. It was as if he was used to hiding his weeping.  
"Yeah, well, you're crying. Silently. You don't have to hide it from me, Crowley, you know you don't."  
"It's stupid. I don't have a reason to cry."  
"That's absolute rubbish." When did I become the emotionally healthy one in our troupe? "Where did you get the idea that crying's only for terrible, life-and-death situations? It's not a special occasions thing. It's a healthy response to sadness or frustration."  
"When'd you get the psychology degree?" Simon's smile could be heard in his voice. It sounded small and wavering, but at least it was a smile.  
Baz tightened the hug a little. "Don't be a smartass, that's my thing."  
"Have to be smart to be a smartass." The smile was gone from Simon's voice.  
"You are smart, you prat. You got great grades in your exams. Your biology grade was better than mine." It hurt to hear Simon being so self-deprecating. Had he learned that from Baz, or...no, enough guilt.  
"I'm not, though. Baz, I can't do it. Talk to people, pretend to be their friend while I'm trying to get their secrets out of them, lie and convince them to support us. I believe in our cause, but I can't- I can't pretend to be something I'm not. You can't ask that of me, Baz."  
"No one's asking it of you. You don't have to lie or manipulate anyone. Agatha's only teaching you what she knows. How she does it. You can be yourself and still convert people to the cause. Maleskyne knows, you'll be better at it if you just act like yourself."  
"But you are asking me. I'm not a politician. I'm not a leader or a hero. I'm not..." Simon trailed off, and his next words were so quiet that Baz wouldn't have heard them if Simon's mouth hadn't been so close to his ear. "The Mage's Heir."  
"Don't be ridiculous, of course you're the Mage's Heir. You're Simon Oliver Snow. You lead us through the fight against the Humdrum and you saved the world. You're a hero if there ever was one."  
Simon pulled away so quickly that Baz felt a little whoosh of air between them. "No, I'm not. That's not me. I can't be that. I know it's important, Baz, but I can't. Please don't make me." Simon wrapped his arms around himself and hunched forward, and Baz's heart pulled, pulled, trying to escape his chest and the layers of linen and wool to get to the man- boy- in front of him.  
"I won't," he said finally, because he couldn't think of anything to say, and for all he thought he understood what Simon was saying, he wasn't exactly sure. "I won't make you be anything you're not." He hesitated, and added, "I promise."  
"Promise?" Simon nodded a little, chin dipping into his scarf. "I'm not a kid, Baz, you don't have to talk to me like one."  
"On my honor as a Pitch," Baz insisted, laying one hand on his heart and holding the other up.  
"Cute," Simon said, but he looked up and his eyes were drier.  
"Hey, the family name is clean. I made sure of that, so don't knock it." Baz grinned even though it felt as if this conversation, and Simon's fears, were very much not over.  
"Can it really be called clean if it's Pitch, though?" Simon swiped a hand across his eyes, catching the tears in his eyelashes on the wool of his glove.  
"Take your European stigmas about colors and shove them where the sun don't shine. In Eastern and Southern cultures white is the color of death," Baz said.  
"Memorize a BBC special by heart?" Simon asked.  
"I read, I'll let you know. I'm interested in more things than your sorry arses, I'll have you know," Baz said, getting up and brushing his coat down huffily.  
"It's nice to know that you're interested them," Simon said, getting up as well.  
Baz thanked every god ever that he didn't blush. "Relax, Snow, I'm not after yours."  
"Guess you have to turn in your homosexual card," Simon said innocently.  
"It's a badge, and I'm disowning you. You are no longer an honorary Pitch."  
"Penny will have me. She'll adopt me, too, not just give me a rubbish honorary membership."  
Baz shoved him, and Simon shoved back, and they ended up knocking into each other the whole walk, until Simon asked, "If Penny adopts me, does that mean Agatha is my other mom?" and Baz laughed so hard he fell over when Simon bumped into him.  
\-- - --  
"Problems don't just go away," Agatha muttered at a sheaf of documents, and hit them gently against her knees.  
Penelope looked over at her worriedly. Agatha's schedule was hectic, since she had to do actual office work- which, okay, wasn't that challenging, since the position Agatha was officially publicly in was very low down the government food chain and she was more than capable of fulfilling it- as well as tracking a colleague and taking the training course for the AMPR, which made for a ton of reading material. This meant that she rarely got more than six hours of sleep, often less, ate as if everything was made of styrofoam, and tried to fit her friends and social life into the nonexistent gaps in her schedule. It was worse than Penelope's first year of college, and that was saying something, although at least Agatha had too much pride to wear the same baggy sweater for four days in a row.  
Talking to study material was a new low, though.  
"Darling, why don't you take a break?" Penelope turned in her desk chair so as not to twist her stiff neck around too much. "You've been working straight for two hours."  
"So've you," Agatha said, absently highlighting a whole page.  
"Yes, but I didn't drive all the way down here," Penelope pointed out.  
"I have to get these done. I've got an exam in two days and reports on Wednesday." Agatha pushed a hank of hair out of her face. "Just half an hour, okay?"  
"Okay." Penelope considered the scene in front of her- her girlfriend leaning against the wall with her knees pulled up and an array of office materials spread around her- and hit 'save' on her homework. Then she clambered onto the bed and pulled the papers from Agatha's hands.  
"No, Penelope, I have to get those done!" Agatha reached out for the documents.  
Penelope leaned back, making pens, and markers roll all over and off the bed. "There's always something you'll have to get done. You're always busy."  
Agatha let her arm drop. "I know, and I'm sorry. I don't mean to neglect you, I'm just so tired at the end of the day and I still have things to do. I know that's no excuse."  
Penelope rolled her eyes and leaned down to put the documents on the floor, causing her skirt to ride up. "I'm not angry, you goose. I'm just saying that we've been here for two hours doing nothing but read about negotiation methods and write about world-turtle mating rituals."  
"And your roommate's away," Agatha said slowly, watching Penelope sit up again.  
"And Leslie's away," Penelope agreed.  
"Wanna tell me about world-turtle mating rituals?" Agatha asked, lowering her knees and placing a hand on each of Penelope's hips as Penelope sat down in her lap.  
"They only breed if a comet crashes into Earth and their young look like goat poop," Penelope said dreamily.  
"Sexy," Agatha said, and got bit for her troubles. It was on the mouth, though, so that was okay. If you liked that sort of thing.  
Agatha did. She also liked almost anything Penelope did or wanted to do in this kind of situation. The reading Penelope had done on the topic was frankly impressive, and made for interesting experiments. (She never wanted to try eating something off anyone ever again, though. There was kinky and then there was Penelope cracking up and not being able to calm down for hours.)  
"Are you here?" Penelope murmured in her ear, and Agatha blinked. Her eyes had slid shut.  
"Yes, of course."  
"Because if you're not, then we don't have to. That's not a threat. It's just not consensual if you pass out from lack of sleep in the middle."  
"I won't." Agatha pulled Penelope closer.  
"Uh-huh. When did you last eat?"  
"Three and a half hours ago. I had real food, before you ask." Agatha tilted her head back. "I'm not going to fall asleep in the middle of sex, promise. I was just thinking of... something we did."  
"Hmm, what was it?" Penelope smiled teasingly.  
Agatha shook her head. "Nope, not telling."  
"Please?" Penelope made ridiculous puppy eyes at her, and Agatha laughed.  
"You'll have to torture it out of me!"  
"A challenge?" Penelope asked.  
"Gods no. You're too convincing for your own good. Or maybe my own good. Or both. Shut me up, please."  
"Finally," Penelope said, and Agatha bit her in retribution. It rather went downhill from there, or uphill, depending on who you were asking.  
Some time later- long enough for them to be curled contentedly around each other, not long enough for Leslie to have come back from her volunteer hours at the retirement home- Penelope said, "I worry sometimes."  
"We all do, Nelly," Agatha said, and Penelope smiled softly at the nickname. It was reserved for special moments of intimacy, although she wasn't sure if Agatha had noticed that.  
"I know, but... specifically." She felt Agatha shift nervously, and put her hand on the one Agatha was resting on her stomach. "Not about you. Well. You too."  
"I'm not a telepath, sweetie," Agatha said, brushing Penelope's hair out of her face.  
"I worry about what happens when we need a leader or a spokesperson for our cause," Penelope said, and didn't continue.  
"That's what Simon is for, isn't it? I suppose there might be a bit of an argument, but he's the rallying point. He's the hero that saved the World of Mages. He's as knowledgeable about it as anyone."  
"Yes, but..." Penelope pursed her lips in thought. "Remember when he was in school?"  
"Which bit?" Agatha pressed her smile into the nape of Penelope's neck.  
"He used to get obsessed with whatever he was doing at the time. If it was following Baz around or defeating the Humdrum. He wouldn't let go, and it was a good thing, sometimes, because the world needed saving, but it would trap him."  
Agatha was quiet for a moment. "You think he'll end up trapped serving the cause? That he won't have a life of his own?"  
"It's silly, isn't it," Penelope said, in a tone that meant please say it's silly.  
"No, it isn't. But Simon's grown up, and you have too. You can take better care of him now. We all can. Just remember, he's a big boy now, he gets to make his own decisions. I think he'll find his own thing, if this in't it. It might be."  
"Political activism?" Penelope said doubtfully.  
"Maybe. Maybe making sure children have better, healthier lives is his thing. Maybe making sure people don't get away with institutionalized speciesm is his thing. I don't know, you don't know, Simon doesn't know. He's nineteen. Not everyone's lucky enough to know what they want so early, and he doesn't have any hardship supporting himself."  
Penelope wrinkled her nose at that. The Uther family (it turned out that Snow had been Simon's mother's maiden name) was rich and ancient and had dwindled to just Simon and the Mage. It had been a shock to Simon to find himself suddenly saddled with history and money and a family, and he'd dealt by delving into each very little. He knew the bones of his family history, used only a little of the money his father sent each month, and wrote to the Mage once a week. He owned a house in the suburbs now, and none of them could find it in their heart to tease him about it.  
"I just hope he finds out what he wants to do and doesn't ignore it in favor of giving speeches at protests."  
"No, he won't ignore it. He's learned a bit more selfishness. Purposeful selfishness, not the natural head-up-your-bum kind everyone has at fourteen." Agatha pressed closer and tugged the blankets over them.  
"Are you falling asleep?" Penelope asked, after a few minutes.  
"No, course not," Agatha mumbled against Penelope's neck, breath steady and warm on Penelope's skin.  
\-- - --  
A loud chirp startled them from their haze. "Sorry," Penelope mumbled, reaching over to the bedside stand. "I'll just see who it is and mute my phone, promise."  
"No, leave it," Agatha slurred.  
Another chirp sounded. Penelope evaded her girlfriend's clumsy clutch at her arm and checked her phone. "Speak of the devil."  
"No, 'nelope, come on. Cuddle with me." Agatha spread her arms.  
Penelope smiled absently. "Tempting."  
"So give into temptation," Agatha said, waggling her eyebrows.  
"It's Simon," Penelope said, in lieu of a response.  
"I feel very strongly about Simon, sweetie, but he can wait a while. Unless it's an emergency, in which case I'll drive you."  
"'Sorry to bother you, but I'd like you to be present for my Skype conv with the Mage. sorrry it's such short notice and of course if you can't or it's inconvenient you don't have to come.'" Penelope paused. "The second one says. 'It's in two hours, Penny. I don't think I can do it alone.'"  
"Why not Baz?" Agatha asked, more or less fully awake.  
"He would never ask Baz. Maybe someday. Oh, I wish I could go back in time and stop him from ever being harmed by all those little things. The neglect and how he never had a childhood, Agatha, something has to change." Penelope glared fiercely at the screen of her phone.  
"I know, 'nelope, but you can't. All you can do is do your best now, for Simon and other children." Agatha planted a kiss on Penelope's shoulder and slid from the bed, gathering her clothes. "Come on, I'll drive you and we'll pick up some food along the way. Man cannot survive on apples and coffee alone, which is what Simon would do if Baz didn't feed him."  
"Thank you," Penelope sad, and Agatha beamed at her.  
\-- - --  
Simon took a deep breath and glanced at the corner of his laptop screen. 17:58. He lifted a hand to run through his hair and dropped it back into his lap.  
"It's fine," Penelope said from the corner of the room. She wouldn't be visible to the webcam, but she would provide emotional support. "Your hair is fine, and even if it wasn't, the Mage has seen you bruised and bleeding and covered in egg-" Penelope stopped suddenly. "Sorry."  
"It's all right," Simon said, ignoring the bile the memory- dragon eggs crushed and broken in a circle- brought up. He'd thought he was doing the right thing, but that wasn't any excuse. He'd felt it was wrong.  
"You'll be fine," Penelope said. She held up his copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. "I'll be right here."  
"Tell Frodo and Sam hi," Simon joked. The Lord of the Rings trilogy had been a Christmas present from Penny, and the hook she'd used to make him read. She'd probably meant for it to make him get into trouble less, although she might not have thought it all the way through, because afterwards he'd reread The Hobbit and gained a few ideas.  
The annoying ringing of a Skype call blared through the laptop's speakers, and Simon turned his attention to the screen. He clicked 'accept call'.  
The face that popped up had once been a face he looked forward to seeing. He had trusted the Mage, looked up to him. Now, he wasn't sure what to think.  
"Simon," the Mage said, smiling genially. "It's wonderful to see you again. How are you?"  
The next five minutes were filled with what Simon called in the privacy of his own head "father-son bonding time" and also "fuck, not again." He never felt comfortable mentioning his friends, since he knew the Mage disapproved of Baz, and undoubtedly, of Penny's political lobbying against spiecism. His days were spent either in study of the various things he needed to know to become Mage (the DAMPR had very clear laws about his training, most of them predating the Department itself), or with Agatha and Baz, training for the same thing in a different manner. At least he could fudge the details a bit and say Agatha was teaching him etiquette. Simon hoped that the Mage didn't expect him to end up with Agatha, like he once had. A part of him still didn't want to disappoint the man.  
"Well," the Mage said finally. "It's good to know you're well." In the corner, Penelope shook her head. "How are your lessons with Dr. Rourke going? Has he started you on Turkle's Technomancy yet?"  
"I'm halfway through the experiment reports."  
"And do you agree that the results could mean an advancement in defense magics?"  
Simon shook his head. "It's too dangerous to use. The experiments themselves were of questionable morality."  
"The test subjects were unharmed," the Mage said. He made a sudden movement and the screen pixelated, making his expression impossible to read.  
"They were children, by fae standards, and couldn't give informed consent. Plus, Matlock's follow-up showed that forty percent of the draconian test subjects were given insufficient help during their recovery-  
"Matlock is hardly the right judge for this kind of experiment-"  
"It doesn't matter how progressive the experiments are, as long as it was inhumane and as long as the results are inconclusive it has no place in Watford. There's absolutely no need to put children at unnecessary risk when we can search for other defenses. Rebuilding Watford is an opportunity to change things."  
The Mage chuckled, and Simon feet all of fourteen again, standing in the Mage's office with dark blue blood dripping from his shirt. "A wonderful argument. But Watford raises soldiers, and soldiers must be well trained in defense against the dangers all around them."  
"Soldiers for what war? The Humdrum is gone."  
"There is always something to defend against-"  
"Not with children," Simon said fiercely. He swallowed down bile at the memory of bodies on the lawn of Watford, blood in the moat, charred, gaping holes in the tree line. "Children should be let live."  
The Mage smiled at him- kindly? Condescendingly? Who knew- and said, "I understand completely."  
No, you don't, Simon thought.  
"And the minutes to this month's Council meeting? Can you tell me what each faction supports?"  
Some of them support me- or Penny or Baz or Agatha- and some of them support you, and isn't it strange that I separate the two now? Simon ran a hand through his hair and dredged up the dull minutes of the Council of Responsibility from the back of his mind. "Meyer supports the reinstatement of the 1928 policies, and Thatcher and Wellsborough both want to keep the current policies. The rest of the Council is split on how to change the current policies or merge them with the 1928 ones without having to admit they were endangering children's lives." Simon hesitated. "Sir, may I participate in the Council's next meeting?"  
"As my representative, Simon?"  
Simon sat up straighter. "As my own. And, of course, in the course of my duties as Mage's Heir."  
"Of course. Tell me, what would you tell the Council?"  
Simon clenched his hands in the fabric of his sweater under the table. He'd been practicing this speech all week. (Which brought to mind other speeches he'd been practicing, but this really wasn't the time.)  
"The 1928 policies have their strong points, but they are outdated and don't take into account the kind of upset the World of Mages has recently experienced..."  
\-- - --  
It was 20:38 by the time the Mage released Simon from the grilling that passed for their weekly talk, ending with the reminder that the Strawson Dinner was in a fortnight and that Simon was to bring a date. It was with a sigh of relief that Simon shut his laptop and rested his forehead on the lid. He squeezed his eyes shut and listened to Penny set down the book and approach his kitchen table. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't. There was no reason to. (He ignored the voice that sounded suspiciously like Baz telling him that he could cry even without a reason. Good god, the man was everywhere.)  
"Is it always like that?" Penny's voice was soft. She laid a hand on his shoulder and Simon lifted his own to hold it in place.  
"Yeah. Imagine how much worse it would have been if I'd agreed to face-to-face like he wanted."  
"You turned him down?" Penny asked.  
"Can you blame me? I said Skype was more convenient and kind of hinted at travel. I think he liked the idea." The laptop was warm. Simon lifted his head away from the slightly tacky surface.  
"No, dear, I don't blame you." Penelope squeezed his shoulder. "I'm very impressed, though. Technomancy? The council- it had Thatcher and Meyer on it, what was it, the Educational?"  
"Responsibility," Simon muttered. "Bunch of musty old codgers." Penelope giggled and he continued. "It's nothing impressive, just a part of my responsibilities. You should see me at the spellcasting class on Monday. The tutor has me doing first year spells. Says my base is completely at odds with my power, too subtle or something."  
"Well, they did make Baz help you," Penelope said, tone light. "You're wrong, though. You stood up to your fa- the Mage, and you spoke well, thoughtfully and diplomatically without relenting or conceding the point."  
Simon shrugged, dropping his hand back into his lap. "He thinks I'm naive. A child."  
"He's wrong, and he'll learn that in time." Penelope wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. "You can make a difference, Simon. People follow you. They trust you because they know you believe in what you do."  
Simon shook his head.  
"Yes, they do follow you, and you deserve it, I've never met a braver man."  
The first tear fell, and then the next, and Penelope came over to his side and lifted his chin. "Oh, Simon."  
"I'm still the same stupid kid, Penny." Simon wiped his face, smearing tears over his cheeks.  
"We all are, sweetheart," Penelope murmured, waving a hand with a "hanky no panky" to call up a pack of tissues. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone really ever grows up."  
"I wish he was my father," Simon whispered, taking the tissue she offered.  
Penelope only blew her own nose loudly and rubbed his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you're like Simon and think it's not ok to cry, let me tell you that that's not true. Let it out. You can rely on friends and loved ones, they really are there for you. If they're not, you've got us over here on the internet, drop a line and you'll get support and care. Simon's friends (adoptive family really) are teaching him that it's better to share your emotions and let yourself feel. It's a process, but he'll get better at it.
> 
> Penny reads fanfiction- Gasp! And Agatha reads right along with her and uses it to seduce her once she realizes it's porn and Penny sees right through her but plays along anyways I CALL DIBS ON THIS HEADCANON  
> Baz and the weather- as you can see, like the rest of the fandom, my idea on what Baz's vampire superpowers would be is fuzzy. How would he even know what his body works like? Were there vampire science experiments? Who conducted them? Were the participants willing? How bloody can I make this? Come headcanon with me on tumblr, I'm wordmage-girl  
> We've talked about Maleskyne and his family of stage magicians and inventors and possibly contributors to the war effort. Wanna know more? Go on wiki, have fun, submerge yourself in articles about fish, contemplate the end of the universe as we know it.  
> Penelope Bunce Cares About Consensual Sex and So Should You- is probably a magazine article waiting to happen. Or maybe a poster for a lecture. Anyway, no means no and yes can also mean no so please don't be a douchebag and make sure both you and your partner(s) are clear on what goes where and who won't do what, thank you.  
> Uther family- Pendragon would be too obvious, guys. I'm not that blatant. *goes and reads Inside the Pendragon Institute even though they're both straight af because it was basically my introduction to fic* No, this isn't an allusion to BBC Merlin. I will never forgive them for not giving Morgana a redemption arc. It's just, you know, prophesied hero, golden hair, magic sword, et cetera, what do you want from me? I'm still waiting on that Five Blades thing, rhien.  
> LotR- Simon doesn't read, you say? FALSE. Everyone should read. Simon's favorite is Merry.  
> Thatcher- what do you mean that sounds like an allusion to Britain's infamous Maggie Thatcher who was racist and sexist and homophobic. Nonsense.  
> Strawson- P.F. Strawson was an English philosopher who talked about moral responsibility, free will, determinism... you know, it's all fun and games until someone sits me down and gives me a nice long talk in understandable English. Please.  
> Chapter title is from "Some Nights Intro" by fun.


	2. So impressed... the cocktail politics and obscure details

"Congratulate me!" Agatha practically skipped into the library, dragging a laughing Penelope behind her.  
Baz looked up from the newspaper he'd been poring over. "Why, have they finally found the cure for overbearing family members? Because if they have I want in."  
"Sadly, no. I've finished the first level of training!"  
Simon closed his laptop. "No more Elmer?"  
"No more Elmer," Agatha said. "No more privates." She set down on the arm of the armchair that Penelope fell into. Penelope was still laughing, under her breath now.  
"What's with Penny?" Baz asked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you drugged her."  
Agatha smirked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say she was happily fu-"  
"Agatha!" Simon covered his ears. "Penny's like my sister. She doesn't have- you know."  
"Crowley, what are you, ten?" Baz muttered, earning him a raspberry. "That's a yes, then."  
"It's just the end of exams high," Penelope said.  
"And, what, three coffees?"  
"Five," Penelope said, leaning back into the chair and pulling Agatha's hand with her, so Agatha leaned back as well, balanced precariously. "And two energy drinks- don't judge me, Baz, I can hear you judging."  
"Wouldn't dream of it," Baz said, at the same time as Simon said, "Penny, those things are horrible for you."  
"You subside on baloney sandwiches and apples, Simon. You have a worse diet than me, and I'm a uni student. You don't get to talk."  
"That's not true. Baz feeds me," Simon protested.  
"What does he do, vomit blood into your mouth like a mama bird?" Agatha asked.  
Simon went a little green under his flush. Penny squeezed Agatha's hand. "That's disgusting, dear."  
"I apologize," Agatha said.  
"Apology accepted," Baz said, looking a little green himself. "Come on, let's celebrate before Pen crashes. It's the beginning of the week. Greg and Maura probably haven't found the ice cream Enid hid yet." He folded his paper neatly. "Shall we?"  
Agatha shot from her perch, tugging on hers and Penelope's clasped hands and jerking back like a yoyo. "Come one, 'nelope, ice cream?"  
"I should go home and get some sleep," Penelope said reluctantly.  
"You're in no condition to drive. She can sleep here, right, Baz?"  
"Of course. But no hanky panky in the spare room," Baz warned, getting up to hold the door open.  
"I would never," Agatha said, hand over her heart.  
"You would, and so would I, except I really am about to crash." Penelope got up. "Sorry, Simon."  
"You should be apologizing to me. It's my spare room," Baz said.  
"It's Simon's worldview."  
"It's okay, it's constantly changing anyway," Simon said, and blushed when Baz rolled his eyes at him.  
\-- - --  
Baz eyed the ice cream soup, melted quickly in the warm kitchen, that Simon was stirring. For the fifth time in as many minutes- he'd been counting- Simon lifted a spoonful of the soup, and let it drip into the bowl. For the eighth time since Penelope and Agatha had abandoned their ice cream, hopefully in favor of a nap and not spare room sex, Simon snuck a glance at Baz and turned his eyes back to the glop.  
Why do I always end up talking to people about feelings, Baz thought resignedly. "Is there something wrong with my face?"  
"What?" Simon blinked at him, startled out of his reverie.  
"You seem to be meditating on how it compares to molten Cherry Gracia." Simon made a face. "What, too much beating around the bush?" Baz got up and took the bowl, dumping it in the sink. He turned and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, suddenly self-conscious as to how domestic his pose was. "Come on, spit it out."  
Simon ran a hand through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp and making his curls into a tangle worthy of a yarn doll. Finally he blurted, "Will you go to the Strawson Dinner with me?"  
Baz barked a laugh. "What, as your date? Are you asking me to the prom, S- Simon?" Don't call him Snow. Just because your heart is broken doesn't mean you have to hurt him.  
Simon ducked his head. "The Ma- my fa- I have to go, and, you know. We talked about it. I'm not comfortable with politicking, and you're good at it."  
"Agatha eats this stuff up, and Pen would jump at the opportunity," Baz said.  
Simon muttered something about "not wanting to ruin their night" and "busy".  
Baz sighed and went over to tap Simon on the hand, hand lingering a little longer than necessary to smooth down his hair. "Of course I'll go with you, idiot."  
"Only you could make idiot sound like an endearment," Simon said, head still down, not moving.  
Baz pulled his hand away. "No, I really think you're thick."  
"No you don't. You think I'm frightfully clever," Simon said.  
"That's Pen."  
"Wonderfully attractive?"  
"Agatha."  
"Really brave?"  
Baz hesitated. "Foolhardy."  
"Dang," Simon said without rancor. "Looks like I score zero out of three on the hero test."  
Baz sighed, swallowing a hundred protests. They really needed to have a long talk about what it meant to be a hero and self-worth. Preferably while the History Channel played in the background, to balance out the sentimentalism. "When's the dinner?"  
"Next week. Thursday at half past seven?"  
Baz nodded. "I'll pick you up at quarter past."  
"I'll get you one of those wrist flower things," Simon said, looking up at Baz and smirking.  
"They're called corsages, you uneducated prat, and just be on time." Baz eyed the table, sticky with ice cream, and flicked his wand at it. "Squeaky clean."  
Simon flinched at the squeal that preceded the table's sudden polish. "Ugh, that sound always reminds me of the giant guinea pig thing in second year."  
"Wombat," Baz corrected absently.  
\-- - --  
"You look nice," Simon said, settling into the passenger seat in Baz's (eco-friendly, partly magic-running) car.  
"Thank you." Baz looked him up and down, pretending to be critical. It was an effort. "Your tie is crooked."  
Simon looked down and made a face, which Baz definitely shouldn't have found as adorable as he did. "I'm almost tempted to magic it, but who knows what would happen."  
"There's no reliable spell for making your clothes look good," Baz said, tapping their destination into thee GPS app on his phone. "At best, it doesn't do anything. At worst, you end up naked."  
"In what universe does than fit under 'look good'?" Simon asked rhetorically.  
Baz shrugged, furiously thinking about anything else but Simon nude in his car.  
They bickered over radio stations on the way, more as a way to pass the time than as a pronounced preference for Bastille over Beyoncé.  
"Do you have any special instructions?" Baz asked as he navigated the driveway to the hotel the dinner was hosted at. "Anything you want me to say? Or not say?"  
"I'm not hiring you as my fake date, Baz. Just don't insult a minister and we'll be fine."  
"I you had hired me as your fake date, you'd fall in love with me," Baz said lightly.  
"What? Why?" Simon stared at Baz, face visibly red in the harsh white lights.  
"That's how it works. Haven't you ever seen a rom-com, Simon?" Baz parked the car neatly. He couldn't believe his own mouth.  
"I've seen rom-coms. They're all heterosexual," Simon said.  
"How progressively MOGAI of you." Baz killed the ignition. "Come on, let's get inside. Have you got the invite?" He froze when Simon caught his arm.  
"Baz, you do know I'm bi, right?"  
"Yes, yes, so you keep saying," Baz said.  
"No, I mean it." Simon strengthened his grip on Baz's arm, looked down at his hand crushing Baz's sleeve and pulled away hastily.  
"I believe you, Simon." Baz opened the driver's door and swung his legs out of the car.  
"Good," Simon said forcefully, enough to set Baz wondering.  
The doorman let them in without blinking, but when they entered the lounge, quite a few eyes were upon them- some curious, some disapproving.  
"I see how it is. You brought me here to create a sensation," Baz said quietly, hardly moving his lips. It was a skill they'd both developed along the years, a side effect of arguing through so many classes.  
"I would've brought Maura for that."  
Baz snorted. "Glad to know you plan on dating my baby sister."  
"Don't worry, I don't, and I'm sure she'd turn me down even if I did." Simon smiled warmly at the elderly woman who approached them. "Mrs. Spitznogle, it's nice to see you again."  
"Likewise," Mrs. Spitznogle said, beaming back at Simon, probably despite herself. She turned to Baz, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, young man. You'll have to introduce yourself, since Mr. Snow hasn't bothered."  
"Tyrannus Basilton Pitch the Third, ma'am," Baz said, while Simon flushed beside him. He took the hand, considered kissing it and decided against it, instead opting for a polite shake. Mrs. Spitznogle's grip was loose and a little trembly, but she looked him straight in the eye.  
"Excellent. Watch out for vultures, boys." Mrs. Spitznogle chuckled as if she'd made a joke and drifted off into the crowd.  
"What was that?" Baz asked, trying to shake off the feeling that Mrs. Spitznogle had seen straight through him, come out on the other side, and found him serviceable.  
"A tip-off, I think. Mrs. Spitznogle used to be the Vice-Chair of the British APMR before she married." Simon leaned closer. "I think she killed her husband and stuffed an armchair with him."  
"Possible," Baz said. "Wait, that was Nan Senech?"  
"She goes by Hannah now, but yeah, I guess so." They wove through the crowd.  
"I think I'm going to get idol whiplash here," Baz muttered. "Just think, if you'd brought Penny..."  
"Imagine how hard it would be to pull her out of a talk with Thatcher."  
"Argument, more like," Baz said, and Simon grinned.  
\-- - --  
"Kill me now," Simon hissed, gripping Baz's arm hard enough to bruise.  
"Wow, you should've said that in third year. It really would have made my day." Baz pried Simon's fingers off him as subtly as he could. "What is it now? Another aging politician out to corrupt your ideals?"  
"Worse," Simon said, nodding and smiling at a white-haired man in a wheelchair. "A young woman out to have the next Mage's babies."  
"How very eighteenth century. Just pretend you're taken."  
"Oh, yes, great plan. Why am I here with you, then?" Simon eyed the shrewish looking young woman approaching them with trepidation.  
She did, in fact, have the look of a hunter about her. Something about the walk, which, Baz thought, should be impossible in high heels, but then again, what did he know.  
Baz rolled his eyes. "Leave it to me."  
"Mr. Snow," the young lady cooed. She had an accent Baz couldn't trace. "What a pleasure." She took Simon's automatically extended hand and smiled at the bland pleasantry Simon mumbled. "And Mr. Pitch, I believe?" She offered him her hand, and Baz, in a fit of pique, kissed it. Her smile didn't waver; if anything, it grew wider. "I'm Catherine- oh, where has my brother got off to?" She turned to the crowd, and practically pulling a full-grown man out of thin air, said, "Charles, have you met Mr. Snow yet?"  
"No, I'm afraid not," Charles said, and his smile displayed perfect teeth with absolutely no fangs at all.  
Baz felt his blood boiling all through Simon introducing him and the dull conversation, during which Catherine slipped away (probably to watch from behind a nearby potted plant). How dare these people- well, how dare they. This was a, an academical political shindig, not a tea party. But, apparently, there was no escape. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Agatha.  
Once Simon was pulled away by someone with a fistful of medals and an obvious toupee, and Baz realized he'd just been standing there, glowering, Charles said, "I'm awfully sorry for my sister." He jammed his hand into his suit pockets. Baz, inoculated through long exposure to Simon, only felt a slight tinge of horror. "She's a bit pushy, but, you know, she means well."  
"Not your fault," Baz said. "Not my business, either."  
Charles looked surprised. "So you're not dating Snow?"  
Baz managed, just barely, not to grab Charles by his shirtfront and shake him like a ragdoll while howling his woes to the heavens through a heavy filter of snot and tears. "Just friends."  
"Okay then," Charles said skeptically.  
"No, really," Baz insisted.  
"You remind me of a friend," Charles said. "He keeps saying that he's absolutely not in love with this girl who drives him up the wall. Definitely a hate-love thing going on there."  
"Sounds familiar," Baz said drily. Sounds like eighth year.  
Charles grinned. "I'm not likely to see you again- politics aren't really my thing- but you seem like a good bloke." He slapped Baz on the back and strolled off into the crowd.  
Baz dragged a hand over his face. Apparently, he was transparent even to perfect strangers. "Eff em el," he muttered, leaning against a marble column.  
"Come on, food time," Simon said, making him jump. "Are you okay?"  
"Fantastic." Baz straightened from his slump. "Does dinner come with alcohol?"  
"Not for you," Simon said, so firmly that Baz raised an eyebrow at him.  
"You do realize that as someone who drinks blood, alcoholism would be the least of my problems?"  
"Still," Simon said. "One glass of wine."  
"That's not even how these dinners work," Baz muttered. He waved a hand at Simon's disapproving look. "Fine."  
"Alcohol doesn't hold the solution to your problems, Baz," Simon said, with the solemnity of a monk.  
Baz choked on a laugh. It was surprisingly accurate. "It'll make everything a little more bearable, though."  
"I'll go drinking with you tomorrow to make up for it," Simon said. He held up three fingers. "Scout's honor."  
"Like they'd let you into the scouts," Baz said, and Simon grinned at him. "Teenage delinquent."  
"The microwave does not count. You blew it up."  
"It was your wand." Baz pulled out Simon's chair for him, and shrugged when Simon looked at him questioningly. "I'm polite."  
"Tosser," Simon murmured, making Baz snort and the woman one seat over purse her lips.  
\-- - --  
Making pleasant conversation over the soup wasn't difficult, since Baz had the good luck to be seated next to an anthropologist who'd spent most of his life in old-fashioned wizarding villages, and the last year specifically in one that cohabited with a mermaid colony. It probably wasn't luck, actually- the Mage had an interest in keeping Simon's da- ahem, companion- occupied so as to leave Simon free to do important Mage's Heir things. It was easy to ignore the gossiping across the table from him and the financial talk across the table from Simon.  
And maybe, Baz thought as the soup was exchanged for salad and the anthropologist moved on to a wizarding village that had been bang smack in the middle of dragon territory (the part about the fertilizer nearly put Baz off his greens), the Mage wanted Simon to make a nice political alliance with some rich, wrinkled old conservative's pretty granddaughter. Had Simon ever come out to the Mage? It was exactly like Simon to just assume that everyone accepted and no one assumed anything about his or others' sexuality. He tended to think better of people than they actually deserved.  
Baz mentally shook himself and turned his attention back to his partner in conversation, who, to Baz's mortification, was watching him with both eyebrows raised and a knowing smile.  
"My apologies, Dr. Beemuch," Baz said, searching his brain for the exact moment the anthropologist had stopped extolling the benefits of mage-creature cohabitation. "I wasn't listening. It was terribly rude of me-"  
"Quite understandable, my boy," the anthropologist said with a smile that had 'when I was your age' written all over its yellowed teeth. "I was lecturing you- so difficult to find an even half appreciative audience these days, I do get carried away- and there are distractions everywhere. When I was your age-" Baz swallowed a groan- "I couldn't concentrate half as long if there was a pretty girl next to me." Baz choked on a radish. "Or boy, but of course things were far less open back then." Dr. Beemuch beamed at him and patted him on the back. "Still, it would be interesting to continue the conversation some other time, hey? Could be useful." The anthropologist nodded and turned his attention towards the ossobuco being served.  
Baz blinked, nonplussed both by being academically and politically propositioned and by how obvious his infatuation must be. Something touched his leg, and Baz nearly jumped out of his skin. His mind raced- rat, mutant piranha, Bentbox Cumberfin pups- and settled when the touch repeated. Right, someone was playing footie, which was awkward but not life threatening. The touch repeated once more, except this time it was a kick, and Simon nudged him in the ribs with an uncareful elbow. Baz leaned forward to get a look at Simon and his partner in conversation and froze.  
Fuck fuck fuck goddamned gandry fuckity fuck why is he here. He isn't supposed to be here. He's supposed to stay out of the public view, preferably drinking brandy in a smoking room and making monthly donations to appropriate charities. That was the deal. Except his father had been on the Council of Responsibility for years, had been the voice of reason and humanity on it until the nasty break that drove half the Council away. He always received an invitation for the annual dinner, and if Baz hadn't been such a love-blinded gandry fool (and he'd deal with that precise choice of words later) he would have remembered.  
Thank John Nevil Maskelyne that Simon was so tall and that Dr. Beemuch had been doing most of the talking. Baz hadn't noticed his father sitting down and he hadn't seen him in the crowd, but then again, his father hadn't recognized him either. It was a mark of how far apart they had grown.  
William Edric Pitch (Baz's father had been lucky enough to be named by a sensible person, a.k.a Tyrannus Basilton Pitch the Second, who had probably recognized the name as the terrible punishment that it was. It had probably been a forewarning of his father's descent into evil that he decided to renew the cruel chain of Tyrannus Basiltons) leaned forward, his pose matching Baz's, and cut Simon off mid-sentence. "Basilton, what a surprise."  
Hahahahaha, Baz's mind said. His mouth said, "Really? You must be losing your touch, then."  
"I simply did not know that you and Mr. Snow were so close."  
Baz's stomach flipped, and he opened his mouth to say something acidic when his brain reminded him that he was talking over Simon's head, and if there was one thing Simon hated it was being talked over and made to feel stupid. So Baz shrugged.  
"We're good friends, and Baz's knowledge of the political spectrum is invaluable," Simon said, and Baz raised an eyebrow because he'd been right but also because Simon was talking like a dictionary. Which, apparently, was hot. Which was weird.  
"What? It is," Simon said, and Baz had to remind himself that Simon couldn't read his mind.  
"Quite. Basilton is well versed in many things."  
"Oh yes, I can embroider and play the lap harp like anything," Baz bit out.  
"I was complimenting you," his father said, a little tersely, and Baz was thrown back to fourth grade. Argh, he couldn't even talk to his father for two minutes without deja vu ninja attacks.  
"Compliment accepted," Baz said, more than a little tersely, and Simon set a hand on his shoulder.  
"Excuse us," Simon said brightly and pushed his chair back. "Strategy talk."  
His father chuckled. "Of course. Go ahead, boys. I believe the bathroom is traditional."  
Baz let Simon march him to the men's room. "What the hell," he said, once the door was shut, and sank down onto the cold tile.  
"He came in late. I managed the small talk but I guess I kind of panicked when he started on politics, Baz, I'm so sorry I had to involve you. I shouldn't have. There must have been a confusion with the last names," Simon finished hopelessly.  
"Yeah," Baz said dully. "Father's never late. He must have come in at the last moment from Cynllun Ymddeol Drwg."  
"That sounds Welsh."  
Baz nodded.  
"What was your dad doing in Wales?"  
"Business. Charity. Collecting interesting rocks. Staying away from me. Staying away from you." Baz shrugged. "Doing what I told him to do."  
"Baz..." Simon ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the floor next to Baz. "You don't have to push your father away."  
"Yes I do," Baz said. "He joined the bad guys, remember? I won't blame him for my choices, but I do blame him for his, and he sided with the Humdrum and exposed his family to it."  
"Maura and Greg were never in any danger," Simon said softly.  
"Eleanor was," Baz said, thinking of his gentle-eyed stepmother. He'd had nightmares of her dead body at his father's feet, her owl familiar dashed to pieces beside her.  
"Eleanor can protect herself, and you know it. And he didn't expose her to the Humdrum's plan, only you."  
Baz scowled. "Fine. I'm selfish, okay? I'm angry at him. And don't you dare pep-speech me, because he tried to hurt you too and your father isn't exactly going to win Dad of the Year either, so."  
Simon's face crumpled. Baz watched in horror as Simon turned his hands away and fisted his hands in his lap. He reached out to touch Simon's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-"  
Simon pulled away. "I know. It's fine."  
"No, it isn't. I shouldn't have-"  
Simon shrugged and got up from the floor. "You're right, it's not fine. Come on, let's get back to the dinner. We'll leave as soon as I can make up a plausible excuse."  
Baz got up ad tried one more time. "Simon, please."  
"Fuck you," Simon said quietly, and drew a hand across his face. "No, I didn't mean that. I just need to calm down. We'll talk about it later. Tomorrow."  
"Yeah," Baz said.  
Baz spent the rest of the dinner listening to someone prattle on about Franz Berwald's piano concerto and inserting token responses, while Simon pretended to be interested in Jack Kerouac.  
\---  
"Well, that went well," Simon said.  
Baz resisted the urge to hit his head against the steering wheel. "Marvelous."  
"Didn't insult anyone, made friends with a few people. Dr. Beemuch is good people, by the way, definitely worthwhile company." Simon shrugged at the surprised glance Baz gave him. "What? Do you know how many council minutes and essays I've read during the past year? Not to mention all the homework I get from the DAMPR tutors." Simon laughed weakly. "I thought I was done with homework after 18, but I guess not."  
"So tonight was a triumph," Baz said drily.  
"No, not really." Simon ran a hand through his hair. "Baz, I'm really sorry for what I said earlier. I was out of line. I shouldn't have stuck my nose in where it doesn't belong, and I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that."  
Baz shook his head lightly, eyes n the road. "I shouldn't have mentioned him. Your father is your business."  
"I wish I could involve you," Simon said quietly. "But I can barely talk to him without having a panic attack. You don't need that.  
Baz didn't say anything for a long time. When he could finally trust himself to speak without shouting, crying or being sarcastic, he said, "I helped you take down an evil magic-obliterating thing made out of your old aura or something, we never really figured that one out. I think I can take some well-justified family issues."  
"But it's more than that. What I want to do, to be, and what he thinks I should be, and what everyone else thinks I am or should be- it's all mixed up. If I have family issues, they're pretty much melded with every other issue I have, and I've got a lot of them."  
Baz nodded and said carefully, "Have you considered seeing a therapist?"  
He could hear Simon's bitter smile. "Apparently, it's bad publicity for the Mage's Heir to be seen at a shrink's, and there's no such thing as 100% patient confidentiality."  
Baz opened his mouth to ask Simon who had told him that and shut it again. He didn't want to know. He really didn't need another person to hate. "Bullshit. I'll go if you go."  
"Couple therapy?"  
"Baby steps," Baz said, and glanced at Simon's hand resting on the side of the shotgun seat.  
Simon sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back. "This is too much for a nineteen year old."  
Baz snorted. "This is too much? Saving the world every year wasn't too much?"  
"That too, in a different way." Simon opened his eyes and sat up a bit. "But I think I might know."  
"Know what?" Baz asked.  
"I'm not sure. I need a moment to think about it." Simon frowned, and Baz's heart, which was definitely cracked, turned into warm mush. He really shouldn't use 'adorable' about anybody over the age of ten. "Make that a lot of moments."  
"Take all the time you need," Baz said.  
"Do you have free time tomorrow? I know I said I'd go out drinking with you, but it's not really a topic for the pub, I guess."  
"Sure. My schedule's pretty flexible, seeing as I'm self employed. Just say the word and I'll be there in a second."  
"Sometimes I forget that you run a household like a medieval fief lord," Simon said.  
"Household, business investments, property, stocks... although you're welcome to keep thinking that I ride around the countryside in hose and codpiece." Baz grinned at the horrified sound Simon made. "You should see some of the old family portraits. I'm the spitting image of my great great great great great uncle."  
"Except for the teeth," Simon said.  
Baz shrugged. "Who knows? He's not smiling in the painting." He put on a constipated expression, eyes hooded. "Maybe he's hiding them."  
"Maybe," Simon echoed.  
Quiet filled the car. Not heavy, waiting silence like before, but the kind of silence neither Simon nor Baz was familiar with. The kind that, to the waking driver, feels secret and precious, and to the sleeping passenger, if not fully asleep, feels safe (and a little bit self-conscious). It was close to the silence Baz had experienced during high school, except in this case, he didn't feel the need to smear Simon's face with toothpaste (or stab him and drain his corpse before disposing of it in the moat, but really, fifth year was hard on everyone.)  
When Baz parked outside of Simon's house, he almost didn't want to wake Simon up. It was ridiculous, really, but Simon looked peaceful, and he hadn't in a while. Baz looked at the faint shadows under Simon's eyes, the curls that always seemed to make their way into his ears, of all places, the shoulders slightly hunched forward, and gripped fistfuls of the fabric of his trousers. His hands, the stupid things, wanted to stroke Simon's cheek, and his arms wanted to circle Simon and hold the rest of the world off.  
Before he could do something so invasive and over protective, not to mention creepy, Baz schooled his features into calm. Then he smoothed his trousers and tapped Simon's shoulder. "Hey, wake up. We're here."  
Simon blinked awake. "We're home?"  
"Yeah, you're home. Go and get some sleep in a proper bed."  
Simon nodded and unbuckled his seat belt. When he opened the car door, a chill breeze slipped in, carrying with it the smell of growing things. "Good night. And thanks."  
"Good night," Baz said.  
Simon paused and stuck his head in through the open car door. "I'll call you about tomorrow, yeah?"  
"My people will talk to your people," Baz said.  
Simon rolled his eyes. He was definitely spending too much time with Agatha. "What people? We have the same people. Whatever people means."  
Baz laughed, and Simon blushed and grinned. "Good night, Simon. Call anytime, always."  
Simon shut the car door and patted the roof before turning away, towards his garden fence.  
Baz spent the drive home thinking of how painfully obvious he was, occasionally stopping to than the ghost of Achsa W. Sprague that Simon was the most oblivious blockhead to ever sport a perfect jawline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Energy drinks are bad for you. So is an unbalanced diet, but that can't be helped sometimes. However, in this case, Simon is often neglectful of his diet and gets things that are really really easy to make and eat. He basically snacks throughout the day, but due to years of considering Cheetos as a luxury he can now no longer stand artificial flavoring. He'll eat Baz's gummy bears, though.  
> Baz is exactly the kind of nerd who would watch the History Channel. He'd probably argue with the shows and write annoyed letters that get ignored because they sound bonkers. Magic? Nonsense, old chap, no such thing. Let's get back to Ancient Egyptian erotica and aliens.  
> MOGAI- Marginalized Orientations, Gender identities, And Intersex. It's shorter than LGBTPQIAA+ and minimizes risks of forgetting anyone. Except I've seen a few different versions for what the initials actually mean, so if anyone has a clearer idea I'd welcome their help.  
> Spitznogle- German and/or European Jewish name meaning sharp nail.  
> Nan Senech- Hannah Szenes was a Hungarian Jewish woman, a zionist who immigrated to Israel and later joined the British army. Although the men she was with decided that entering Nazi-occupied Hungary was too dangerous, she kept going, to assist in rescuing Jews from deportation to Aushwitz. Szenes was caught, tortured and executed for treason. She didn't break under the severe torture and tried to keep her and the other prisoners' spirits up. She wrote a diary to the very end, along with a lot of poetry. I had to give a talk about her once, and I find her inspiring. A female parachuter in 1944 in a group of men? She not only didn't break, she communicated with the other prisoners. She sang. The lady was a hero.  
> Catherine and Charles- in a world where Baz has read Sense and Sensibility, but the Thorpes are real, cameos are like juggling flaming knife torches. These are the Bingley siblings, and the accent is of a different story 'verse.  
> Beemuch- inverted Dolittle. *whispers* kill me  
> Ossobuco- this is really tasty. It's veal shanks braised with wine, broth and vegetables, with gremolata (citrus zest, garlic and parsley) on top. My dad serves it with rice, but apparently you're supposed to serve it with risotto? Also he substitutes pork or regular beef for the veal.  
> Cynllun Ymddeol Drwg- google translate Welsh for Evil Retirement Plan. What's with all the Welsh stuff in this 'verse? Also, my dad collects interesting rocks, and yet he is not evil. Will wonders never cease.  
> Franz Berwald's piano concerto- this dude is only known to music hipsters and people who look up 'obscure composers' on google. Guess which one I am. The concerto's really beautiful, by the way: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0inu7QjoDSs  
> Jack Kerouac- you probably know more about him than me, especially if you actually bother reading the wiki article. I picked the name off my dad's bookshelf, from On the Road. Simon wouldn't have liked him.  
> Achsa W. Sprague- well known American 19th century Spiritualist, medium and trance lecturer, abolitionist and advocate of women's rights.  
> Chapter title is from "The Employment Pages" by Death Cab for Cutie.


	3. When the morning light sings and brings new things

Baz's phone went off in his inbox, and Baz upset the perfect order of the stack of invites (from 'over my fully dead body' to 'program it into the calendar') to grab it. So far, he'd already swept the household bills to the floor in his rush to answer the chairman of a charity organization and nearly knocked his teacup into his lap to answer a woman trying to sell him double glazing. (He hadn't yet found a spell that would block telemarketer calls; he had a sneaking suspicion that they employed mages of their own.)  
He recognized the number before caller ID kicked in and clapped the phone to his ear a little too enthusiastically. It stung. "Baz Pitch speaking."  
"Hi Baz," Simon said, sounding a little out of breath and Tyrannus Basilton Pitch you wash your brain out with soap right now.  
"Hi." The brain soap was not working. Table settings, table settings. This time it worked, and the image of childhood etiquette lessons replaced the image of Simon with a hand down his pants. "Is this the call for alcohol?"  
Simon laughed. "Just beer and cookies at my place. None of your fancy cocktails."  
"They would seem fancy to someone who thinks beer and cookies is a good idea," Baz said, putting his desk in order one handed.  
"I can make cookies, so cookies it is," Simon said. "Don't knock the cookies."  
"Have you even eaten lunch yet?" Baz asked, ignoring the cookie talk. When he received no answer, Baz sighed. "Okay. I'll bring food. You have to take better care of yourself."  
"I eat," Simon protested. "I had a big breakfast, and it's only... it's only four now."  
"You are an idiot." Baz ran the probable contents of the pantry through his head, and weighed he possibility of begging Enid for food vs. cooking it himself and getting constant unasked-for help from the same cook. "I'll be there in half an hour. Forty minutes, tops." Speed laws were for humans, anyways.  
"I called to invite you for seven thirty, and you don't have to cook, I'll order in."  
"Like hell I'm eating Chinese on Friday night."  
"Fine," Simon said in a long-suffering voice that made Baz smile. "Make your poncy healthy vitamin filled balanced food. See if I care."  
"I'll eat the cookies to make it up to you," Baz promised.  
"You better," Simon said laughingly. "I didn't carry the grocery bags all the way home on the bus for nothing."  
Baz paused, a handful of receipts crumpled between his fingers. "You do know that you can order groceries online, right?"  
"Of course," Simon said. "but I'm perfectly capable of going to the supermarket, Baz."  
Baz closed his eyes and sent a plea to any deity that might be listening to help him knock some sense into Simon Oliver snow's thick noble skull.  
"Of course you are, but that's not the point. You don't have a car, and you're a busy person. You can pay the extra pounds to have your groceries delivered, and not lug them half across the city, because I bet you went to a big supermarket because those are cheaper."  
"So?" Simon sounded defensive. "There's no point in wasting money."  
They really needed to talk about this. Of all the classes and seminars the Mage and DAMPR had Simon go to, couldn't one of them teach him how to handle money? "It's not waste if it contributes to your comfort and saves you time and pointless effort."  
"Okay," Simon said. "Can we just, not talk about it right now? Can it wait, like, a week? Or something?"  
"Sure," Baz said. "Seven thirty?"  
"See you then," Simon said, and hung up.  
Childhood trauma, shouldering too much responsibility, not taking care of himself properly, no basic economic skills... Baz tossed the receipts into the trash a little too forcefully. The world really wasn't fair towards prophesied heroes, neither before nor after they saved it.  
All he wanted for Simon was for him to be happy, and as Baz thought that, he realized it wasn't exactly true. Happiness wouldn't solve everything, at all.  
\---  
He ended up on the porch of No. 505 Porcupine Drive with an unreasonable amount of everything, because Enid apparently thought that Simon was still a growing boy. Although she might have just taken the cure from how many times he'd invaded the kitchen since Simon had started coming over. His cooking skills had upgraded from scrambled eggs to food you could actually get leftovers from. (He could still remember the face Maura had made when he'd offered to feed her leftovers. No wonder Simon, straight from the orphanage, hadn't gotten over his negative first impression of Baz if he'd been that spoiled.)  
The doorbell made a mechanical chirp that reminded Baz of the sound of a selkie throwing up, and a moment later Simon opened the door in a wave of light and warmth and vanilla (none of which were figurative- Baz was hopelessly in love, not touched in the head. Besides, Simon smelled of apples.)  
"Hi, the cookies are ready, just kick the door shut behind you, I have to take them out, wow that's a lot of food." Simon grinned sheepishly at Baz for a second, ran into the kitchen, and left Baz blinking in the aftershock.  
Well, at least he wasn't nervous. Nervous talking was Penny's thing.  
Baz kicked the door shut and followed Simon's path to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the kitchen table and shaking out his fingers to get the blood running again. He eyed the stack of baking trays on the counter. "How many cookies were you planning to make?"  
"Already made them," Simon said. He was wearing oven mitts, by Crowley. "I was only going to make three but Mrs. Jennings from No. 506 came over and I had to give her the first batch to make her go away, so I made a fourth."  
Baz shook his head. "Ah, young grasshopper, you have much to learn. If you give them cookies, they will come back for more."  
"They were a little burnt," Simon said absently. He set down the baking tray and shut the oven door. "What'd you bring?"  
"Enid decided that you'd switched your intestinal system for a cow's and now need to feed four stomachs. So everything." Baz began opening Tupperware boxes. "Vegetable casserole, chicken salad, this pasta thing..." Baz brought the box to his nose and sniffed it. "Nope, still not sure what it is."  
"It's mac and cheese casserole, you prat," Simon said, nudging Baz away from the pasta. "Potatoes, Yorkshire pudding-" both made a face- "and pork in applesauce."  
"Oh boy, we eat tonight," Baz said, rubbing his hands together theatrically. "And so do you, for the rest of the week, or until you come over again, which is almost everyday, so never mind."  
"I have to keep checking to see that your mug is still as ugly as I remember and that my brain isn't tricking me," Simon said promptly.  
"Touché, but you got one detail wrong. My mug is the epitome of good looks." Baz struck a pose, one hand in the opening of his jacket, head turned stiffly to the side.  
"Nope," Simon said cheerfully. "You can take off the coat, though, it's not cold in here. Coatrack's over by the door."  
"I know, I've been here before," Baz said.  
"You could've forgotten. You've got lots of things on your mind."  
"Some things are important," Baz said, shucking his jacket and meandering off to the parlor.  
"My coatrack?" Simon called.  
"Yeah, sure."  
Once he'd hung his jacket on the coatrack (whoever was responsible for that, it wasn't Simon) Baz wandered around, going through the motions any person in a house they aren't entirely at home in goes through, dubbed by those who enjoy such things "the Smithsonian Sidle"- leaning in to inspect things but not touching anything.  
Baz had only been to Simon's house a few times, and it always felt contradictory to him. It felt lived in and warm, and it looked cozy, with the soft couches and potted plants, but it felt...waiting. It felt personal and impersonal at the same time, nothing on the walls, the mantel mostly bare. Baz found himself thinking, at least the potted plants are alive, and wondering how that made sense. He'd always thought Simon couldn't be trusted with a cactus.  
"Grub's up," Simon called from the kitchen. Baz left off his inspection of the crystal ball on the mantel (if he remembered correctly, a rather expensive joke gift from Agatha) and came to the kitchen.  
The scene that greeted him was the most domestic thing since Betty Crocker probably. Simon stood over the table, which was loaded with hot food, filling the kitchen with the smell of lamb.  
And Simon was still wearing the oven mitts.  
"Thanks," Baz said thickly. He sat down at the table. "Nice gloves, by the way."  
Simon glanced at his hands and blushed, pulling the oven mitts off hurriedly. "Forgot I had them on."  
"Keep them, they look nice," Baz said, only half joking. Simon tossed a mitt at him, and Baz caught it and set it on his head. "What do you think?"  
"I think you look very good in flower print, Baz," Simon said earnestly. "The cookie crumbs in your hair are a nice touch."  
Baz whipped the oven mitt off his head and shook his hair out vigorously, almost missing the shit-eating grin that spread across Simon's face.  
\-- - --  
There is nothing like a settled stomach to settle the mind. But when after Baz cast an easy "squeaky clean" on the dishes ("Baz, you didn't have to, I can wash them-" "Don't be ridiculous.") and Simon dumped his (slightly malformed) cookies on a plate, and once they'd sat down on the sofa, he felt nerves creeping in. It didn't make sense, there was no reason for him to be nervous, except that Simon was running his hands through his hair and eight years of living together had produced an instinctive empathy. In other words-  
"Speak, friend, and enter," Baz said.  
Simon looked at him oddly. "That doesn't exactly fit here, Baz."  
"Yes, well, short notice. I didn't exactly bring my big book of quotes with me." Baz clasped his hands and settled them primly in his lap. "You look as if you're about to burst, so talk."  
Simon blinked. "Right." He got up from the sofa and adopted a soldier's pose, feet apart and hands behind his back. His voice slipped into a formal cadence that Baz found ever so slightly familiar. (Later, he'd be flattered and amused that Simon imitated him when speechmaking.) "I've given great consideration to my purpose in life. I believe that Watford, and through Watford, the World of Mages in general, wronged many children. We were turned into soldiers at the tender age of ten, soldiers in a war which we did not truly understand. It was a war against the forces of the Humdrum, true, but it was also a war of hatred and ignorance. We were taught to believe that we were better simply because we were mages, and human beings. We were told that other peoples were lesser, simply because they were a different shape, and we were taught that cruelty was all right, as long as the recipient was not like us. Some encountered these beliefs at home as well, but to have an educational institute teach hatred and prejudice is intolerable.  
I want to change this. In my capacity as Mage's Heir and future Mage, I have the opportunity to make Watford a safe place, both for mind and for body. I can create a place where children are not used or made to grow up too quickly, a place where children are truly educated and taken care of. I believe in a better world, and change starts from the roots."  
The house fell silent for a moment, the only sounds the occasional soft squeal from Baz's spell and the sitar from No. 503.  
"Simon," Baz said slowly. He paused and arranged his face into a slightly more neutral expression. "Was that the speech you prepared for the Council of Education?"  
Simon was shaking his head too hard before Baz even finished the sentence. "That was the speech I prepared for you."  
Baz smiled softly, and then he grinned, and then he burst into laughter and held out his arms. "C'mere," he said, and Simon tucked himself between Baz's arms and pressed his sheepish grin into Baz's shoulder. "You didn't have to write me a speech, you ninny. I can understand you perfectly without them."  
"'kay," Simon said. He twisted around so he was actually sitting on the sofa instead of bending down awkwardly, and Baz let go, although neither moved very far away. "So, what now?"  
Baz kicked off his shoes and crossed his legs into a tailor's seat. "Wanna talk about it?"  
Simon shrugged. "I don't know if there's anything else to say."  
"Of course there is. What do you want to actually do, for example? Not theories and castles in the air; they're all very well and good, but you need concrete if you want castles down here." Simon made a face. "You know what I mean."  
"Yeah. But I don't know what I want to do. I've only got... ideas.. and half-plans, just things I want..."  
"Good," Baz said. He eyed the unopened beer bottles on the table. "I think this is a tea conversation. Which cupboard's the tea one?"  
\-- - --  
Baz woke up with a cramp in his neck, a content, warm hum in his heart, and morning wood. All three, he found, once he was fully awake, came from the same source. He was squashed against the back of the sofa, legs tangle up in Simon's (when had that happened?) and head on Simon's chest (ditto). Simon was splayed out on his back, one arm between Baz and the sofa's back and the other dangling off the sofa.  
That has got to be uncomfortable, Baz thought, sitting up ever so carefully and studying the way Simon's legs were tucked under him.  
Luckily, Simon slept like a log (albeit an extremely attractive one that snored) and hardly stirred when Baz eased his legs out from under his bum. Baz got off the sofa gingerly and rescued Simon's hand from where it was dipping in his half-full mug. No wonder his high school attempts to make Simon wet the bed hadn't worked. the man had some kind of uber-resistance. Or maybe he just changed out of his pj's really fast?  
A glance was enough to prove that a) Simon did indeed have uber-resistance and b) he also had an erection.  
Baz took the other mug and the platter, devoid of cookies, and escaped to the kitchen. Hopefully coffee would drown out the strange mixture of embarrassment and smug satisfaction that was brewing in his belly.  
\-- - --  
Coffee and brushing his teeth did their job so well that Baz decided he would check on Simon, just to see how he was getting along. Or something. Coffee would do as an excuse. Baz grabbed the mug of cream-and-three-sugars, removed his wand from where it had wedged itself under his sweater, and stirred until the coffee was hot. He tucked his wand into the waistband of his jeans, ignoring years of safety jingles he'd heard on the radio, and left the kitchen.  
Simon was sitting up, hair flattened, head bowed and hands hanging between his knees, the picture of despondency.  
Baz cleared his throat, and Simon's head shot straight up. "Good morning. Coffee?"  
"Yes please. Thank you. Good morning," Simon stuttered out.  
Baz hid a smile and handed the coffee over, sitting down next to Simon, close but not as close as he'd like, even though the all-night cuddle and, ahem, were quite encouraging. On the other hand, a gentleman- gentlevampire?- never took advantage of a friend in emotional turmoil. "You all right? You looked upset before."  
Simon shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. "I thought you'd left."  
Oh. Baz clasped his hands in his lap to keep them still. "What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned you?"  
"A normal one? It's not like you don't have a life of your own, and I'm at home. You could've just called or something."  
"What, and miss out on the best night's sleep I've had in a while?" Ah, shit. Wanna be any more embarrassingly honest, Baz? He peeked at Simon and Simon peeked back at him, steam from the coffee curling around his face.  
Baz tipped his head to the side. "We're ridiculous."  
"Your face is ridiculous," Simon said. His smile was so sweet that Baz's breath caught.  
"That's a given." Baz ran a hand through his hair and caught himself. Simon had rubbed off on him.  
Simon just buried his nose in the coffee mug.  
"So..." Baz said, to fill up the silence.  
"What, do you want to talk about feelings, Baz?" Simon asked innocently. Big blue eyes fixed onto Baz's.  
Baz opened his mouth to retort- and closed it. He looked away and around at the sunlit parlor, the house that felt as if its owner was waiting for something.  
Simon wasn't waiting for anything anymore. He had a purpose, and soon enough the house would reflect that. Simon would stop coming over all the time, and he'd stop needing guidance and lessons. Maybe- maybe, maybe- he'd stop hesitating to ask Baz out on kind-of-dates.  
He was pretty sure last night had been a date.  
Maybe Simon would see how strong and good and smart he was. Maybe he'd go see that therapist.  
Baz wouldn't need to be a backbone anymore. Or, if he hadn't been one for the past year- at least a little bit- then at least he could stop feeling like everything would fall apart if he did.  
Baz took a deep breath and looked at Simon again. He could give it time, take it slow. "Where'd you learn to be so mean?"  
Simon, who had begun to look worried, broke into a grin. "Agatha."  
"I'm hurt. Hurt, I tell you." Baz pressed his hand to his chest dramatically and then let it fall between them on the sofa.  
Simon steadied his coffee against one knee and wrapped one too warm hand around Baz's cold one.  
They would be all right, Baz thought. He squeezed Simon's hand and only laughed a little when Simon slopped coffee down his front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon's house- the street name is a tribute to Simon Snow fandom's own deservingporcupine, who is a wonderful person and deserves all the tribute, but not in a Hunger Games way. The number is from the Arctic Monkeys song "505" which incidentally is on my Snowbaz playlist. It's so perfect for them that I want to cry. I would post the lyrics here but they're a bit long so here's a link: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/arcticmonkeys/505.html   
> Mrs. Jennings- interfering, well meaning old busybody from Sense and Sensibility. I quite like her.  
> Therapy- if you need it, get it. Simon needs help, and he's going to get it. It's not weakness; in fact, it's quite clever and brave to ask for help and make yourself use it.  
> Chapter title is from "Better Together" by Jack Johnson.


End file.
